and I’m sorry…. I had one of those moments last week and I just left a handwritten note card for someone that basically says, “Hi. I was a raving lunatic last week. Please accept my apologies.”
Have you ever had one those melt down moments? Once you calm your ass down, you find yourself scratching your head thinking, “Damn. I was a real asswipe, huh?”
I’m the type of person that says all the things that others in a group are too afraid to say. You know what I mean, right? If there’s an issue; a pink elephant standing in the middle of room and everyone is wondering about it, but no one wants to step up and ask the host or hostess the one simple question: “Hey, why the fuck is there a pink animal in the middle of your living room?” Well, I’m the person that speaks up. I ask the questions. I want to know. I’ve tried to be tactful in my Spanish Inquisition approach, but hell, I’m just asking what everyone else is thinking, but too bashful to utter the words.
My neighbors that live a couple houses down from me are delusional. How is that, you ask? Well, first of all they think they’re practicing their heavy, metal, amplified to the highest platform possible rock music in a downtown Los Angeles recording studio: Sound proofed, expensive to rent, etc. Secondly, they think they’re good enough to be practicing in a downtown Los Angeles recording studio. It’s important to say that they feel the need to practice a lot. Clearly, I’m no record label executive scouting the midwest for the next rising rock stars, but these guys…well, the line forms in the back, dudes.
I came home last Sunday and I wanted to sit outside on my patio with my laptop, glass of wine and enjoy the evening. I was looking forward to a peaceful evening of porn writing. The wanna be rock stars were doing their thing on the second floor of their two story house that they rent. Oh gee, lucky for the neighborhood, they had all the windows open too.
Their band consists of an amplified, electric guitar, bass, full drum set and a lead singer, that I’m sorry to say isn’t the next James Hetfield, the lead vocalist from the 1980′s metal sensation band Metallica. Needless to say, my window and walls, like everyone else in the neighborhood, and in Pittsburgh, PA were reverberating. I WANTED TO KILL THEM. Tomorrow’s front page newspaper would read: “Woman loses mind and kills wanna be rock musicians in her neighborhood….details on page B4.”
I blew a gasket. I marched over to their house in my flip-flop meaning business ways and banged on their front door; frantically hoping and praying that God would send an electrical storm down from the sky above and cut the power off from their house. Or they’d tire and need to take a break from practicing their “music” and hear me pounding on their door to a different beat. Nope. God was not parting the skies for me on that day. These guys were relentless. They were like whales that never needed to come up for air. The fucking band played on.
I did however find their landlord. He lives across the street. He’s someone I know well. He built my house and I have the utmost respect for him, except when it comes to his tenants. Let’s just say, he received the lashing of a lifetime from Neve. It wasn’t the good kind of lashing either. It was a verbal lashing and I said some not so nice things. The music stopped though and I haven’t heard a peep from those delusional musicians. Thank you God.
That was nearly a week ago and I feel badly about what I said, thus the handwritten note I secretly set inside his mail box today. A little token, acknowledging my bad bahvior; a peace offering. Along with my apology, I also offered to pay for a couple round of beers the next he and are bellying up at the same neighborhood bar. That should work.
p.s. The note cards above can be purchased via Etsy here.